The first person I ever came out to was my friend Stacey. I chose to tell her first because she has the kindest demeanor about her. Everything from her laughter to her body language exudes acceptance.

I met Stacey in college and the night I decided to tell her that I was gay was during our junior year. I remember we'd been hanging out eating junk food and watching a movie. After the movie, we were sitting in her room talking when I finally leaned toward her and said, “So, I want to tell you something. It’s kind of a big deal…”

Being closeted can feel like having no voice. It's difficult to ask for help if you have no voice.

I said it with a nervous enough tone that she immediately lowered her voice, trained her eyes on me, and replied, “OK …”

I remember taking a deep breath and jumping out of my chair because I was so nervous. I also did a lot of nervously clenching my hands into fists and avoiding eye contact. I kept saying things like, “I’m sorry I just can’t say it” and “Oh man, oh man, oh man” and “Jesus, Stacey, this makes me so freakin’ nervous.”

Considering that she had no idea what I was getting at, Stacey was supportive in every way she knew how to be. She was patient as I freaked out. She tried to calm me down.

It took me an hour to finally tell her. And I remember it feeling like eight hours. It was hard to just say it. Saying nothing had begun to feel safe to me. Staying silent was the price I paid to feel safe.

What terrified me the most after I told her was that I knew there would be no going back. You cannot unsay something like that. I kept thinking about how big of a deal that was. How I was changing my life forever. Once I said it, then it would be real. My declaration would make it true.

There comes a point when saying nothing just doesn’t feel safe anymore.

Yet, even with all of these worries and apprehensions, this need to tell her still burned inside of me. It’s amazing — I was so afraid of the truth, so afraid of my life changing forever, but I could still feel this need underneath all of that.

At last, the need to speak the truth far outweighed the fear. I think all closeted men and women eventually reach this breaking of the equilibrium, and that’s when we finally say it out loud. There comes a point when saying nothing just doesn’t feel safe anymore. When we reach that point, we not only find our voice, but we start learning how to scream.

That night, Stacey helped me speak. I remember her finally getting worried about what news could possibly be so difficult to convey. She got slightly stern with me and said, “Adam. Seriously. You are starting to scare me. Just tell me what you are trying to say.”

So I stopped pacing, sat down next to her, looked at the ground because my eyes were too afraid to look up, and I said, “I’m gay.”

It felt like someone just ripped a band-aid off my arm. I barely got the words out and I followed them up with, “Oh my god, I said it. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m sorry that took so long. Please don’t hate me. If you hate me, don’t tell me ’cause I can’t handle that right now.” I felt sick to my stomach. I continued looking down at the ground.

And Stacy replied, “Adam. It is fine. It is totally fine.” She put her hand on my arm. I managed to look at her. She smiled at me. And as always, her face said, “I’m not judging you at all.”

Just like that, someone else knew I was gay. But most importantly, they knew because I had told them. I had summoned up the strength to tell her from my own lips. I had taken the first step. Looking back on that very scary and very arduous first step, words alone cannot express how proud I am of myself.